


Lowlands Away

by JQ (musicmillennia)



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), Temeraire - Naomi Novik, The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Dragons, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 06:55:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14514885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/JQ
Summary: When Len is fourteen, he and Lisa stow away on a ship. There, he meets a young boy named Will Laurence.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Figured it was past time for me to write a Temeraire au
> 
> Title from a sea shanty of the same name that I heard from Assassin's Creed 4: Black Flag, though the lyrics themselves have nothing to do with the fic. Just thought it'd be a fitting title.

When Len is fourteen, he smuggles himself and his sister on a ship returning to England. It's packed to the wood grain with injured soldiers, but Len's small and his father has forced him into smaller spaces than between cargo. Lisa, seven and freshly cowed by the bandaged wound on her shoulder, trembles but stays silent.

It's an impulsive decision―no, it's a  _reckless_ decision. The instinctive fear that his dad would find him no matter what state he ran to is most likely unfounded. But as he holds his sister under his chin and brushes against her wound, the wound that will surely leave an angry scar, he has no regrets. Terror, yes. But no regrets.

The first few days are spend stealing supplies and growing sea legs. Len wishes he could take what they need right from the big crates of cargo, but a little snippet of something missing here and there won't get noticed as fast as a chipped box in the hold. Thieving's left Len with a good sense of balance, though, and he adjusts accordingly. Lisa gets seasick but valiantly downs water and keeps to her corner. She says barely a word.

Stealing bandages on a ship of wounded is far more difficult. Len tries to hold off as long as he can, but his sister needs her bandages changed. A week into the voyage, he whispers to wait for him as he always does and heads to the doctor's room.

He doesn't get far before someone enters the hold. Len ducks behind one of the crates.

It's a boy, younger than Len but older than Lisa, in a blue coat two sizes too big that almost match his eyes. His tufts of blond hair are bleached from the sun and his freckled cheeks are red. In one hand is a lantern. In the other―

"Little girl?" he calls softly.

Len's eyes widen with his racing heart.

"You looked like a little girl, at any rate," the boy adds. "I, ehm, brought some food for you."

He offers the salted pork and tiny water flask. The flask has  _WL_ carved sloppily in the leather. Len oughta snatch both and knock him out. But then he might alert the ship, which by some miracle he hasn't already after apparently glimpsing Lisa. 

Why hadn't Lisa told him?

Len swallows past the sting and stands. He can tie the boy up, threaten him a little. There's spare rope across from where he and Lisa hide.

Then the boy says, "I'm a stowaway too. Well, of a kind. I ran off to join the Navy." He takes a few cautious steps forward, earnest as anything. "At any rate, I know what it's like to run from home, and while I'm not sure how a lady will fare on her own, I can't very well let you starve."

It's reckless. Stupid.

Len steps in front of the boy anyway.

He starts, gasps, but doesn't scream.

Len gestures to the food. "I'm her brother."

The boy blinks owlishly. "I'd no idea there was anyone else. How did you―"

"If that's really for her, I'll take it over."

The boy gives the supplies. Way too trusting. "I do need that back though. It's the only measure of water I can get."

"Then why're you giving it to a stranger?"

And the boy blinks at him again and says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, "Because she needs it."

A pregnant pause follows, 'cause Len needs a moment to process how _innocent_ this kid is. Where he comes from, every brat's a selfish crier, even Lisa sometimes. Children older than this odd boy whine and snitch as much as they breathe.

Just to be sure, Len asks, "Why haven't you told anyone about her?"

Again, the boy seems confused. "She's just a child, and not hurting anyone besides. So long as the soldiers get as much as we can give them, I don't see why she should go hungry. I've enough rations to spare!"

Len almost gapes. "These are your rations?"

The kid nods.

Len's learned how to see through liars the hard way. There's no lie here. Just stupid, amazing honesty.

"...I'm Len."

The boy holds out his hand, straight-backed and proper. "Will Laurence. A pleasure to meet you."

Firm handshake, at least. Fingers growing callouses.

"My sister's injured too," Len says slowly, "I was on my way to take what bandages I could get."

Will grimaces. "Can I ask how she was injured?"

"You could."

In the following quiet, Will huffs. Len smirks.

"Well," Will says after another beat, "How bad is the wound?"

"It'll scar," Len replies softly.

Will looks almost as hurt as he feels. He scuffs his feet on the floor.

"I  _could_ help you, I suppose. But I'm clearly lacking in your stealth."

Reluctantly, Len starts walking back to Lisa, knowing Will will follow. "I could―use a distraction for the doctor. Just long enough for someone to have their back turned at the right time."

Will hums. "Normally I don't speak much to the others"―hard to believe―"but I act as an assistant most days. I can tell you where he keeps most of the bandages, though..." his face twists in disgust, "he will certainly notice if any alcohol went missing."

A boy in the Navy put off by alcohol. Len's starting to think he's hallucinating.

But Lisa cowers when she sees him.

"Oh," Will murmurs, seeing the crusted blood.

Len puts on his big brother smile and kneels before her. "We're gonna get you stuff for your shoulder soon. Hungry?"

Lisa, pale and sallow, cautiously nibbles at the morsel, eyeing Will's devastated face.

"Who did this?" Will hisses.

"Someone far away," Len replies steadily. Despite their half-formed plan, he recalculates and asks, "Can I get the stuff now?"

"Yes," Will says as fiercely as a twelve year old can. "The crew is either sleeping or working above deck. Either that, or they're drunk senseless by now, and the doctor's likely with that rabble."

He leads Len through the maze below deck, legs steadier than Len's. They're both lanky poles of boys, so Will extinguishes the lantern and whispers directions as he guides them between unseen beams, barely illuminated by the port holes.

There's a cramped table of a few crew members and, as Will predicted, the doctor who's supposed to help the bed-ridden soldiers. They're all drinking and cackling at some slurred, half-cocked story. Typical.

When they reach the doctor's station, a few scant, flickering lights hang by some soldiers' beds. A few groan. A few gasp. A few weep as quietly as they can. A few are eerily still.

Will casts a sorrowful look at them all. "The bandages are just over there. I...I'm going to see if any of them require anything. Unless you need me to take you back?"

Len shakes his head. Will scampers off, as if his skinny slip can help these grown, haunted men.

Len wishes, foolishly, that he could help too. But his sister always comes first.

* * *

Will comes by when he can, usually in the dead of night. Len starts to see how tired and thin he is, but it never seems to matter. After giving his ration, he sits a careful distance away so as not to scare Lisa overmuch and carries their conversation.

He talks about his older brother, his distant father, and his caring mother. How he could never imagine life in the clergy, how the sea always called to him. Then he turns around and talks about honor and obedience to his country, how someday he will captain his own ship and make sure that soldiers put under his care will never know a drunk doctor's care.

"Why don't you tell the captain?" Len asks.

Will shakes his head. "I'm just a boy. What can I do?"

Plenty, Len wants to say. But he's pretty sure he's not in a position to argue the point.

"No," Will goes on, "Until I rise in the ranks, I can only do what I'm able with what little I have."

That, at least, is something they share.

"When I return home, my father will be proud," Will says another night, smiling wistfully. "He is a hard man to please, you know. George of course, being the eldest, is his favorite. But when I face him with a rank, I will shake his hand."

Len snorts.

"What?" Will snaps, affronted.

"Nothing. Just." Len shrugs. "Don't kill yourself over it. Sometimes..." he glances at Lisa. "Sometimes parents don't want to be pleased."

Will looks at his lap, clenching his fists. "I'm sure he does," he whispers.

"All the same."

"It isn't like I'm joining the Aerial Corps! I'm getting an honorable commission!"

Lisa shrinks under the loud voice. Will slumps, cowed, and apologizes. He leaves shortly after.

* * *

The night before the voyage ends, Will shakes Len's hand one more time and wishes both of them luck.

"Y'know," Len says, "you're a strange one."

Will laughs. "I'll take that as a compliment, Leonard."

" _Len_."

Will merely laughs again and bids them good night.

Len smuggles Lisa into London.

* * *

Len tries taking odd jobs to support him and Lisa. He's put to the docks once, where the only other boy close to his age is a big Irish lad who takes one look at him and says in a gruff voice, "Won't last a day."

Len naturally takes that as a challenge.

The heavy lifting leaves him sore and bone tired, with terrible wages. But Lisa gets to eat something when the money he'd taken from his father runs low, and he can tell the Irish boy, "A day, huh?" every morning.

The Irish boy goes from grunting indifferently to rolling his eyes to flicking his ear. Then one day he says, "Since you're stickin' around, might 's well know your name."

Len, feeling more playful than he's been in years, gives his nickname in a cheeky voice.

The boy snorts. "Mick Rory."

His handshake rattles Len's still-growing muscle, nothing like the firm propriety of Will. (Len wonders how he's doing.)

Mick Rory's a rough sort and doesn't often think ahead, mostly because his life's shaped him that way. Occasionally, Len'll catch him staring at the flickering fires in lamps with dreadful hunger Len's only seen in pictures of dragons. He drinks with his father and the other men and stinks of it for days at a time.

He also shares Len's dry humor and has a blunt, uncaring variant of Will Laurence's honesty. He somehow knows whenever Len needs help and fills the empty space at his back. His laugh is infectious and wild. When Len flinches from his touch, he learns how to adapt. When he's tipsy, he tells Len he wants to learn how to read, wants to travel the world and own a big house like his mother always wanted for him.

Len knows how he could make it better for Lisa  _and_ Mick.

He's tried the honest way. It's clearly not working.

Eight months into his work at the docks, he pulls Mick's ear to his lips and tells him he's going to snatch a visiting noble's jewels.

Mick's eyes shine with greed. He asks when.

* * *

It's a fucking disaster. Len hadn't accounted for an emergency guard change, and all they managed to swipe was some worthless ring.

"Plan was good though," Mick says, like it matters. "Next time you'll get it."

Len gives him a slow once-over. "You'd do this again with me?"

Mick shrugs. "Helluva lot more fun than bein' a pack mule. And I like yah, Lenny."

He smiles and bumps their shoulders. Tentatively, Len tries smiling back.

"Keep the ring. A reminder for your next plan."

Len does.

* * *

Slowly, Lisa starts talking again.

She asks if they'll see Will again. Len says he doesn't think so.

"He was nice," she says quietly.

"...I met another nice one," Len replies, "Not like Will. He's a―bit rough around the edges."

"Is he the one who makes you smile?"

Len's brow furrows. "What'd'you mean?"

Lisa shrugs, fingering the tattered hem of her dress. "You smile more when you come home."

He hadn't noticed. Lisa looks happy about it.

"I guess so," he says. "His name's Mick. He's Irish."

Lisa leans against him. She's done for now.

"Hey, Lise. Wanna get a new dress?"

* * *

Next plan works like a dream.

"I'm gonna leave my da behind," Mick says, fingering the coins, "'E can rot in that damn wharf an' I'll be livin' like a king."

Len holds out his hand. "To shit fathers."

Mick nearly crushes his fingers and Len wonders if this is what having a friend is like.

"Partners?"

"Damn right. I'm stickin' with you, Lenny."

Yes, Len thinks, it is.

* * *

Lisa gets a new dress. She smiles like the dawn.

Can't say Len hadn't tried the honest route. Not his fault the law makes it easier for thieves to form.

He breathes in London's smog and thinks he could make somethin' outta this.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Incredibly minor spoilers about Temeraire series in case any of y'all haven't read it. (Which you shouuuuld) Like, a basic plot point in Empire of Ivory and the cure that you found out about in like, the beginning of the book.

As is the case with many events in his life since Temeraire's hatching, Laurence does not intend or expect to confront a Fleur-de-Nuit near Loch Laggan on a rare leisure flight.

"Oh, at last!" Temeraire crows, arching towards the dragon immediately. Despite his own alarm, Laurence could hardly fault Temeraire's enthusiasm. With the plague infecting so many, including his friends, a battle is the perfect distraction. 

The Fleur-de-Nuit flies alone. A scout, most likely. Unfortunately, only Laurence is aboard, so it will still be a difficult fight until what reinforcements can be managed arrive. Laurence readies himself and raises his speaking trumpet to give the signal.

The Fleur-de-Nuit turns and calls, "Oh, excellent! Have you seen two idiots and a pretty golden girl? I know you don't have my vision, but I thought I'd try!"

Temeraire pulls up abruptly to hover.

"Nice trick!" the dragon says eagerly, soaring in agile circles, "But I'm in a hurry, so you'll have to teach me another time."

"I won't teach you anything!" Temeraire cries, "You're trespassing near my friends!"

"Oh, is this someone's property?" the Fleur-de-Nuit says, " _M_ _y_ crew says I don't have to regard property until it's mine."So have you seen 'em?"

"Seen who?" Temeraire snaps.

"My crew, of course!"

Temeraire's head rears. "They're not on your back?"

The Fleur-de-Nuit snuffles. "I wanted to hunt on my own. But I suppose someone found their camp, so they moved somewhere. I've been searching for over an hour." They corkscrew towards the opposite direction. "Listen, you look like a steady bunch, but if you haven't seen 'em, I'm gonna keep looking without you."

"That is an odd accent for a French dragon," Laurence remarks. The voice is an octave or two above Temeraire's and sounds, if anything,  _American_.

"Yes it is," Temeraire replies. He pursues the dragon. " _Parlez-vous français?_ "

The Fleur-de-Nuit snorts. " _Bien sûr._ What's it to you?"

"Well, you don't  _sound_ French, but you are a French breed!"

The Fleur-de-Nuit twirls and flies  _backwards_. "Excuse you, my companion  _stole_ me with a good, cunning plan!"

"That's not so special.  _I_ was won in a battle!"

"Hmph. But did you steal your companion  _and_ his family back?"

"...well―"

"That is not necessary," Laurence shouts hastily, "I am more than willingly your captain, Temeraire!" He is assaulted with the image of his poor mother getting snatched in giant, well-meaning talons and suppresses a shudder.

The Fleur-de-Nuit flies forward again. "Temeraire, huh? That infamous Celestial?"

"Yes," Temeraire says proudly.

"So that small human is William Laurence?"

" _Captain_ Laurence to you!"

The Fleur-de-Nuit's shining eyes stare right at Laurence. "My companion told me that if I should ever see you that he says hello, and his sister's scar has healed famously."

Laurence, after a moment's confusion, has to fight to maintain his composure when two thin faces in a ship's hold flashes in his mind. "Your―companion, as you call him, is not French."

"Not in the slightest," the Fleur-de-Nuit replies genially, coasting closer, "But he can put on all sorts of accents. Would you like me to tell him anything when I find him?"

"Who is your companion?" Temeraire demands, "Laurence, you never told me you knew a Fleur-de-Nuit's captain!"

"He was not a captain at the time," Laurence explains, "Ah―this is not a French scout or officer of any kind, gentlemen. Just a straggler."

" _Captain_ ," the Fleur-de-Nuit says wistfully, "I rather like that. I think I will call him Captain."

"Well I want to meet him!" Temeraire says haughtily, "If Laurence knows him, I should too!"

"My dear, I have not seen him in years," Laurence says, "I assure you, he was a passing acquaintance in my childhood."

"But now he has a French breed! We should at least see if he wants to fight!"

"He  _always_ wants to fight!" the Fleur-de-Nuit replies eagerly, "Well, he fights with his plans, but he can certainly fire a gun. Once I saw him take down a man twice his size with just his fists and his wits! His friend does most of the fist-fighting, though. Who are we fighting?"

Remembering that quick-fingered boy, Laurence doubts a successful recruitment. Nevertheless, such a dragon _would_ be a valuable and much needed addition, as would the man who did so much to protect his sister.

"Napoleon Bonaparte," he says, "We fight in the war."

The Fleur-de-Nuit's eyes widen. "The  _war_. How exciting!"

"Yes it is," Temeraire says, vanity momentarily satisfied, "Myself and my crew are a great asset. Though it's just Laurence and me at the moment. My whole crew is  _enormous_!"

The Fleur-de-Nuit's snout wrinkles. "Sounds wonderful, but I could never obey orders outside of my companion's. None of us are meant for uniforms and being saddled like horses. I don't see why dragons must be treated so."

Laurence opens his mouth, but it is too late.

Temeraire banks sharply until he and the other dragon are practically wing to wing. "Yes, exactly! I think we should be paid like any soldier!"

"And vote," the Fleur-de-Nuit says, "I'm not involved in politics myself, but I know that's important."

"How does your crew feel on your stances?"

"Oh, I've always chased what I want. My Len encouraged that from the shell! Of course, since we are criminals―" Laurence freezes, "―I doubt we would be able to vote anyway. Still, isn't it a grand idea?"

"Laurence, Laurence!" Temeraire cries, "Did you hear that?"

"Forgive me," Laurence replies haltingly, "but I don't believe Parliament would be swayed if you allied yourself with a proclaimed criminal."

Who Laurence had apparently helped stow away years ago. If this gets out, he will be lucky if Loch Laggan, or the Admiralty, talks of anything else for the next month.

"Oh not at all," the Fleur-de-Nuit readily agrees, "In my experience, the Government's a pile of stuffy unreasonable men."

"My dear―" Laurence begins weakly, only to have the dragon shout, " _There_ you are, Len! Guess who I've come across!"

The forest is dark along the coast some miles from the covert. Laurence can see nothing until the dragon swoops down and a small fire ignites on the ground.

"Well, well," a matured but familiar voice shouts, "Small world."

Temeraire lands on the cliffside, the other dragon joining him. Three figures stand around the small fire, two men and a woman who wiggles her fingers in greeting.

"Leonard," Laurence says a tad awkwardly.

Leonard smirks, striding forward to meet his dragon's ferocious nuzzles. "Not a commission in the Aerial Corps, huh?"

Laurence figures he may as well dismount. "Yes, well. Circumstances arose."

" _Circumstances_ ," Leonard's sister teases. Laurence realizes neither sibling had given her name. "Did you think about honor and England?"

"Laurence is  _very_ honorable," Temeraire replies seriously, though he does so with a sigh usually reserved for long patrols.

"So you're the man they've followed in the papers," the third, a stranger, says in an Irish accent.

"Soon as we recognized you," Leonard says.

"Though the word-of-mouth stories are funnier," his sister adds. "But we were never really introduced, were we? Elisabeth Snart. Lisa to most."

Laurence numbly shakes her hand, thinking of all the WANTED ads and grumblings he's heard over the years about Leonard Snart, world-renowned criminal. He'd never even thought to connect the two, especially with Leonard's changed looks. He's filled his frame with exercise and proper food, practically glowing with smugness as he regards his old acquaintance. His long coat looks to be of expensive quality, pulled close over his likewise dark clothes and gloves.

Lisa releases Laurence's hand, golden brown hair swishing as she turns her head to the Irishman. "This is Mick Rory."

"Of course," Laurence says stiffly, "The man who sets fires."

Rory grins with an almost draconic delight. "Good t'know I'm famous for the right stuff."

" _I'm_ Atlas," the Fleur-de-Nuit says petulantly.

"Yes," Leonard replies, dragging the vowel as he drags his hands over Atlas' snout. "A dragon that can lift the world."

Atlas hums happily at the description.

"I was named after a ship," Temeraire replies, "A wonderful, grand ship!"

Both Snart siblings smirk at Laurence. "Naturally," Lisa says.

Feeling oddly put out, Laurence says, "You do realize that, regardless of the division, I am still an officer, and you are outlaws."

"Why d'you think we're here?" Mick asks.

"That makes no sense," Temeraire replies. He and Mick glare at each other.

"We've got information for you and your sick friends," Leonard interjects.

"We had to travel very,  _very_ far to get it," Lisa adds, "But we figured we owed you."

"And I won't risk Atlas," Leonard says sternly.

"If you traveled as far as you claim, you already did," Temeraire says, "What is this information?"

Leonard reaches into his coat and pulls out folded parchment, motioning for Laurence to draw nearer to the fire. He rolls his eyes when Laurence remains still. "It'll help every dragon in the country,  _Will_. Come here."

Lily's pale scales move Laurence's steps.

The fire illuminates an illustration. Temeraire and Atlas peer with Laurence.

"Last month, Atlas got infected," Leonard says tightly. "He always wanted to see Africa, so we thought we'd spend...some time there." He clearly means the days he thought would be his dragon's last. Laurence's chest aches with the prospect. "Then I came across this."

The sketch seems to be a mushroom. There's something about it that strikes Laurence as familiar, but he cannot place it.

"We gave it to 'im as a snack," Mick says, indicating Atlas, "and―"

"I felt better in days!" Atlas finishes with a flourish of his head.

Laurence wonders if Temeraire has lost his breath too. He whirls to look at Atlas. The Fleur-de-Nuit's dark scales and glowing eyes shimmer with perfect health and pride.

"Are you certain?" Laurence demands.

Leonard nods gravely. "It couldn't've been anything else. That's the only real change we made. There are scraps, but if you can find the source―"

"―no more dragons will succumb," Laurence says in wonder.

"Lily, Maximus, everyone!" Temeraire says, amazed, "We can save them!"

Laurence looks up. "That's why you haven't shown symptoms. We gave you that mushroom once on a voyage, did we not?"

"Yes!" Temeraire says, "I am already immune!"

The ground seems faint under Laurence's feet. Temeraire is cured. Temeraire will not get sick. He will not fade gradually during patrols.

As if sensing his thoughts, Temeraire gently nudges his back. Laurence puts a hand on his muzzle.

"I don't care for the government," Leonard says at last, redrawing Laurence's attention. "But dragons deserve to live like the rest of us."

"Yes," Laurence says, "I've heard your revolutionary opinions from your dragon."

Leonard smirks. "He came to those opinions all on his own."

"They're too much alike sometimes," Mick says fondly.

"We've saved a sample," Lisa says, "Say you kept it for botany or something. You upper class gentlemen like strange hobbies." Laurence remembers his brother's stint in pinning butterflies and refrains from commenting. "Then you can tell the truth: Temeraire ate it a while back, and he hasn't been showing symptoms."

Leonard retrieves said sample from another inner pocket of his coat, wrapped in a lovely handkerchief embroidered with  _IW_ in soft blue. Stolen, then. As this is a matter of national importance, Laurence unties his neckcloth to better secure it in his hands.

"Thank you, Leonard," Laurence says, "Despite your vocation, you are still a good man at heart."

Leonard smiles. "No need for insults, Captain."

"We must get this to the covert as soon as possible!" Temeraire says. He turns to Atlas and says, hopefully, "But perhaps we will meet again?"

Atlas bumps their snouts. "I do hope so, Temeraire."

Oh dear.

As Laurence and Temeraire fly with all haste, Laurence almost thinks he hears Atlas say, "By the way, Leonard, I will be calling you Captain now."


End file.
